


silver sunshine, golden moonlight

by rhindon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 17:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18706663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhindon/pseuds/rhindon
Summary: “I could teach you to play it,” he offers, when he finds Tuor gazing longingly at the rack of harps.





	silver sunshine, golden moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the bit at the middle comes from Kalevala, ‘cause honestly? If the Narn is based on the Tale of Kullervo, the Hadorians can damn well have their own Kalevala-like mythology.

As much as Ecthelion dislikes the expression, it _is_ a beautiful day. The sky’s a clear swathe of blue, the wind just on the right side of pleasant, and all around them there's the sharp tang of the air - autumn’s beginning. Leaves rustle overhead.  Flanking him on both sides, a pair of golden-haired boys scuff their boots on the pavement, and he can hear a low chuckle from behind.

Three steps behind and a step to the right- but no, he's _in the City_ , for heaven's sake.

That's when Hurin says, "Truly it has been a blessing to dwell here, under silver sunshine and golden moonlight!"

He quirks an eyebrow at that, unsure whether he should correct the mistake in... language? observation? He looks over his shoulder. Glorfindel's glance is in equal parts surprised, fond, and rather amused. Ecthelion shrugs it off. If neither of their senses are kicking in, he's not going to run the risk of embarassing the kid over this.

He hums his assent and asks Húrin how his harp-work is coming along. That, mysteriously, ends up in the boys barrelling straight into Glorfindel: funny how that happens.

 

"You're a menace on society. You are an awful influence," Glorfindel grouchs later.

Ecthelion feels like laughing, and - since, why not? - he does, actually. He grins so hard his jaw hurts.

"I will have you know I have quite the lordly character, my lord. Hey, wait, that’s a real knife!"

 

He does ask about the words, though, because he's never been able to resist a pretty turn of phrase, and well, they did sound like poetry. He and Huor are sitting by one of the lesser fountains, harp in hand, anything else forgotten for the moment. Huor presses his lips together.

"It's just something from the old poems," he says. "I did wonder, though. The House of the Golden Flower bears a rayed sun on its shield."

“Golden Glorfindel,” Ecthelion says, without really knowing why. “But the Sun... Well, I don’t suppose you need me to give you another lesson in history; I know Pengolod does enough of that.”

Huor gives him a shy smile. “It’s not like sunlight’s really golden, though, isn’t it? It’s pretty white.”

Ecthelion nearly shatters his harp with his sudden grip. He stutters - for a second, he can’t, just can’t rein in his facial features - and then he asks, calmly, “White?”

In hindsight, he did sound pretty terrified. Terrifying, even.

“It’s- You mean. It’s not white. For you?” Huor asks, uncertainty seeping into his voice, and Ecthelion clenches his teeth.

He should have expected it, he thinks. They are different species, after all, and as biological differences go, this one is surely innocuous, except he can’t help thinking of banners, flag signals, flares-

“What color is this?” he holds out his sleeve, something in his throat cracking in his effort to keep his tone even, _Huor’s just a fucking kid._

“Uh, white? Kind of silver, I guess,” Huor answers promptly, and because he is a bright young man with eyes to see, he adds, “The stones are white. Your eyes are kinda silvery too. Glorfindel’s hair is gold.”

Which doesn’t help, since Huor could be seeing the stones in a color Ecthelion knows as yellow and yet associate them with ‘white’, but that’s not the pit Ecthelion wants to die in today, and he can maybe stop freaking out now that he knows they share a relatively similar spectrum.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tugging up the corners of his mouth. “I panicked a bit.”

Huor stares at him, incredulous. “You were perfectly fine! Do I want to know what you’re like when you’re panicking a lot?”

Ecthelion’s smile is genuine this time. For some reason, that seems to make Huor whisper, “I am so glad we’re on the same side. _So glad._ ”

Ecthelion lets it pass.

“Is it only the Sun, then?” he asks, and considers the possibility. The endless Ice under pale starlight, the stark darkness of the night sky... To be honest, in his eyes, daytime still does look like it is awash in golden light. But then the Secondborn had not been there, had never had a reason to know that terrible blank.

“My father used to tell me stories about how the moon was made up of golden cheese,” Huor muses. “It explained why it waxed and waned. But the Moon looks white to me, too.”

Ecthelion nods. “Cute,” he says, and Huor smacks him in the back.

“What about you? You have the silver armor, and that crystal shield, and I don’t know what else; does that make you...”

“Valar, no,” and he’s laughing, and shaking his head, because that idea is simply too _absurd_. “I’m the Fountain. The King’s Fountain.”

And then he sobers, and adds, “Why do you think I don’t bother with fancy swords? But enough about that. Come on, son of Galdor, tell me about those stories, those songs of your people! I’ve done enough of teaching for today.”

Huor can tell a blatant change of subject, yes, but he can also avoid uncomfortable ones, it seems. He grins happily and sings -

 

_Golden friend, and dearest brother,_

_Brother dear of mine in childhood,_

_Come and sing with me the stories,_

_Come and chant with me the legends,_

_Legends of the times forgotten,_

_Since we now are here together,_

_Come together from our roamings._

 

“I could teach you to play it,” he offers, when he finds Tuor gazing longingly at the rack of harps. He winces inside as the words pass his mouth; it really isn’t his best instrument, and Salgant might take it as an insult this time around.

“Thank you, but I know how to play,” Tuor says, his posture stiff.

Ecthelion can’t blame him. Children generally like him, but then, he is fair of face and soft of speech (when he wants to be, at least), and often that’s enough for them. Tuor keeps his guard up, glancing at him warily. He sighs.

“You may borrow one, still. You will find strange tunes are welcome here.” And, because he is an old fool: “Was it Huor who taught you?”

Tuor’s face, if possible, closes up even tighter. “My father died before he had the chance,” he says.

Ecthelion could eat his knife.

“Annael taught me,” Tuor finishes, and his eyes dart back to the harps, once.

“Your father taught me the songs of his people,” Ecthelion says, carefully not looking at the Man, refusing to gauge his reactions. He will not manipulate, not on this. “And perhaps, in time, I could return the favor to his son. But no matter the occasion, I will always be glad to see you in the southern parts of this city.”

 

“He built his house on the wall! Who builds his house on a goddamn wall?”

“Tuor, apparently. It’s basically your jurisdiction. Didn’t he ask for permission?”

“But he did the puppy thing!”

Glorfindel’s glare is one long-suffering.

“All right, and Idril did threaten to sack me, but still-“

“Just drain the cup, yes, there’s a good boy. Seriously, I am so not dragging your drunken ass to your bed.”

“But if I did anything weird,” Ecthelion protests blearily, “it would be perfect blackmail material.”

“Figures. You’re soaking in wine and you’re still strategizing,” says Glorfindel.

Ecthelion looks at Glorfindel. Glorfindel looks back.

“I didn’t say that aloud, did I?”

 

 

It's a concept familiar to him, he realizes, as he steps forth to his death. Carrying something only to see it die, whether it be a sword, a song, a piece of enchantment, and oh, how he wishes Tuor had not been forced to do the same with him - but that line of thought is cut off as soon as another intrudes.

Well. Tuor is going to _kill_ him for this.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I, like, really, REALLY like the fact that in the old version of the FotG, Tuor learned music in the southern parts of the city where there were loads of fountains. Seriously, though, a house up on the walls??


End file.
